


bleed for me (die for me)

by whaleoil



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Choking, High Chaos Corvo Attano, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, just a bit of sexy stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaleoil/pseuds/whaleoil
Summary: After they fight, Corvo and Daud find another way to occupy their time.
Relationships: Corvo Attano/Daud
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	bleed for me (die for me)

The fight is quick and brutal, and when it ends Corvo’s sword is pressed to Daud’s throat.

The edge dances sharp and deadly across his skin. There is the barest hint of pressure a hairsbreadth from piercing vulnerable flesh. In his line of work, Daud is not unused to threats, but he far prefers to be on the other side of them. Better by far to be the one emerging from the shadows, even if it means leaving with another life staining his hands. And yet…there’s something tantalizing in being caught, unable to transverse away, at Corvo’s mercy.

Corvo’s hand is steady – for now – but Daud can’t help but swallow against the blade, the sharp edge rasping against even that tiny movement. Daud’s breaths are shallow; he doesn’t dare any larger movement lest Corvo come any nearer to ending him. It was a fair fight, as fair as any fight can be between two such as them, and now Corvo has won. Shown his superiority. Left Daud defenseless.

And now nothing is left for Daud but to beg.

“I have one more surprise for you. I ask for my life.”

Daud swallows again. Corvo still hasn’t moved. If Corvo chooses to kill him, so be it. Daud has no fight left within him. He has struggled for so long, fought and murdered and been attacked in return, and he’s tired. Long months of dread and regret have finally culminated in this, fantasies of Corvo’s wrath made real. Either he dies now or he leaves Dunwall forever. Whichever way this is decided, his life as he knows it is forever changed.

For long, long moments, Corvo just stands there. His mask is impassive, impossible to read any expression or hidden machinations from. Daud assumes he is watching, planning whatever fate will be most cruel, though he knows this is all a mere flight of fancy. For all the mask gives away, Corvo could be looking off at the ceiling while composing dinner plans, this entire fight already forgotten.

But whatever Corvo’s true feelings, his sword remains still and unwavering, a promise in sharp, cold steel. Then Corvo’s hand shifts. The blade comes closer, a tickle of icy metal turning to sharp hot pain, a line of fire burning across his throat.

So this is how he dies. Blood trickles down his neck, hot and wet. It’s indistinguishable from water this way, really, out of sight as it is. Daud can almost tell himself it’s sweat, just the aftermath of their battle. If it weren’t for the pain, that is. He thinks, irrelevantly, that at least he won’t have to worry about washing this blood from his shirt. Corvo saving him untold hours of laundry through death, how kind of him.

Then Corvo pulls his hand away and drops his sword arm. Daud starts to draw in a breath of relief, but before he can Corvo is raising his other hand to Daud’s collar, gripping it tight, so tight, cutting off this brief illusion of escape. Corvo pushes Daud back into the short edge of his desk, hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, and it’s all Daud can do to draw in air, shallow wheezes his only resort.

Corvo’s hand comes up to squeeze, and Daud begins to feel lightheaded. He wants to struggle, but his energy has already been sapped by their frantic struggle. The fabric of his shirt is rough against his newly wounded throat, but even that sharp pain blends into the background, just one more ache in his collection as his world narrows to nothing. His hands grip tight to the edge of his desk, barely even feeling it, certain he’d fall if not for it and Corvo’s support. The panic of impending death should lend him strength, but instead he accepts it. Accepts that this is his destiny now. He will die at Corvo’s hands.

There’s something almost comforting in it, really. He has cast himself upon another’s mercy and found nothing there for him. And it’s what he deserves. Clever hand around his neck, cutting him off from the world one final time.

But perhaps his moan when Corvo tightens his grip isn’t entirely one of pain. And perhaps there is blood rushing to places that have nothing to do with injury.

Corvo loosens his grip, letting out a huff of – disgust? disbelief? amusement? – as Daud gasps in a desperate lungful of air, one more than he thought he’d ever have. And yet he isn’t sure if he’s thankful or disappointed when Corvo takes a step back.

But Corvo moves only enough to give himself room to press a hand between Daud’s thighs, cupping the now obvious bulge growing there. Daud can’t help but thrust against the hand, all defenses he might once have had stripped away.

“This is what you want?” Corvo says, more accusation than question. His voice is rough, as if it’s gone unused for far too long, and muffled behind his mask. This is the first time Daud has heard him speak, and oh if the sound of it doesn’t go straight to his cock, all the more tantalizing for its secrecy.

“I—” Daud begins, but his words, usually so ready, abandon him before they can form as Corvo runs his hand casually along Daud’s length. He lets out a strangled whimper, the only vocalization left to him.

“Hm?” Corvo punctuates his inquisitive sound with another stroke of his hand, and Daud bites back a groan. He can’t begin to imagine what expression Corvo is wearing beneath his mask. Whatever his true feelings, mocking or bored or revolted or truly interested, he gives nothing away.

“I—” Daud tries again. There are any number of excuses he could use. He’s certain of that. He could blame the pain. He could blame the dizziness that came with choking. He could blame Corvo’s proximity – closer than he’s allowed anyone to get in a long, long time. But he knows himself too well to lie in the privacy of his own mind. There’s simply something to the danger that excites him.

He thinks he should lie, at least. But in his currently addled state he can’t come up with a single sentence. And he wants so desperately to say yes, to see what comes of this. To let Corvo have his way with him if he so desires.

“Please,” he finally manages, more than that single word beyond him. Anything to keep Corvo here, such a turn from his earlier goal of avoidance. Anything to keep Corvo’s hand on his cock.

Corvo moves his hand away, and Daud whimpers, already longing for it to return. But he doesn’t go far, sliding his hand up under Daud’s shirt, instead. Corvo’s hands are rough, calluses from long hours of practice gliding over the soft skin of Daud’s stomach.

Then Corvo grabs his sword.

Daud flinches, frozen in place. This is it, then. The end. But instead of violence, Corvo works the tip of his sword under Daud’s shirt. Cool air hits his fevered skin, a shock to his exertion warmed body, and Daud shivers as Corvo peels his protective layers away from him. Daud does not choose his clothing to be easily torn, and Corvo’s blade, well-honed though it is, takes considerable force before it starts shearing through fabric.

And then – searing pain as Corvo’s sword shears through flesh as well.

The metal is cold, a sharp contrast to his too-warm skin. He flinches away, and the contact is brief as Corvo continues with cutting through his clothing. But there’s something delicious in the cut it leaves behind, one not of malice but of desire, the pain present on a tantalizing precipice of pleasure.

Corvo’s movements are rough, no deliberation left, and the sword drags along Daud’s chest on its way, pain hot and bright, as skin tears along with fabric. Daud gasps, but the pain is part of him now, each cut of the sword layering new sensation upon him. He is left with nowhere to flee, trapped between Corvo’s body and his own desk. But neither does he wish to flee.

It takes hardly any time at all for Corvo to finish cutting through Daud’s shirt and jerkin, but it feels like an eternity. Long moments of silence are adorned only with the sound of tearing fabric and Daud’s hisses of pain at each scrape of metal against skin.

And finally Daud stands before Corvo, chest bared, blood streaking down his skin. He raises a gloved hand to cover a slash, though the bleeding is already slow. The wounds aren’t serious. Daud has been injured more than enough times to know that. They’re shallow and bloody and they _hurt,_ lines of fire along his ribs, but it’s a pain he can handle. A pain he can pull into himself, not so much a problem as, well. Corvo’s presence is turning this pain into something very different. There’s a sweetness to it, to the deep and visceral ache within him, one which is only compounded by Corvo’s proximity. A tension which goes straight to his cock.

Corvo moves his hand forward to cover Daud’s, their fingers almost intertwined as they lie on the bloody mess of Daud’s chest. Blood gathers between Corvo’s fingers, small pools forming before dripping down over the back of his hand, over the Outsider’s mark, obscuring it with lines torn from Daud’s very being.

Then Corvo pushes, and Daud falls back onto his desk. He makes no attempt at resistance, letting Corvo manhandle him into whatever position he wants. He vaguely hopes he isn’t getting blood on his books before his mind is forced back to more immediate matters. He lies before Corvo, spread over his own desk, shirt shredded open, leaving him splayed out like a gift torn open, tied with strings of blood.

Corvo trails his hand over the planes and muscles of Daud’s abdomen. His touch is light, soft and exploratory after the ferocity of a moment ago. He dips into Daud’s navel, traces over the lines of old scars, skirting along the edges of the new wounds, blood following along behind his every touch. He swirls around a nipple, the touch delicate right up until he pinches, hard, pulling a gasp from Daud.

Corvo continues his way up, sliding fingers along Daud’s neck, past the cuts there, painting him in his own blood. His fingers trail along the scar on Daud’s face, the tacky feeling of drying blood a counterpoint to calloused fingers as Corvo marks him. As Corvo _claims_ him.

And suddenly Daud is desperate to see Corvo’s face. To claim at least that much in return of this man who has so neatly pulled him apart. If Corvo gets to see _him_ then he will see Corvo in turn _._ He spears the fingers of one hand into Corvo’s hair, pulling it taut while using the other hand to pull his mask off. Corvo freezes, his eyes widening as Daud reveals them, harsh breathing no longer muffled by the mask.

Daud’s gloves are coated with his own blood, though it vanishes as he runs supple leather though dark sweat damp hair. He trails one hand down Corvo’s cheek, over tender skin, leaving behind rough red streaks. _These_ he can see, evidence of himself left in plain view. He can’t feel Corvo’s skin, separated as they are by this thin barrier of leather, but he can feel slight jerks of muscles, jaw clenching, Corvo vibrating beneath his outward stillness. Corvo covered in his blood. Appropriate. One killer marking another in turn.

Daud runs his fingers along Corvo’s lips, painting them a bright bloody red. Corvo’s mouth falls open ever so slightly, and Daud finds within himself the overwhelming desire to taste him. Daud pulls Corvo’s head forward. Corvo’s eyes widen at the sudden move, clearly unexpected, but he doesn’t resist. Daud pauses, their faces so close yet not quite touching.

And then their lips meet. It’s fierce and violent, more clash of teeth than anything, biting into each other as if this, too, is a battle. And perhaps it is. Their entire relationship is nothing but conflict, so why not in this, too? They pull apart, no clear winner but the satisfaction of tearing into enemy flesh. The metallic scent of blood is overpowering, intoxicating, existing wounds and newly bloodied lips alike contributing their share.

The Corvo pushes Daud back and settles his hand over Daud’s cock, declaring himself winner of the war. Daud is already half hard despite the pain – _because_ of the pain – and he can’t help the jerk of his hips, chasing sensation and contact that is impossible through his trousers. Corvo’s hand is frustratingly light, its presence more tease than satisfaction. Daud _wants,_ and he wants _now._ He reaches down and grasps Corvo’s hand, pushing it harder against himself, and _there_. He can’t help the moan that escapes him as he thrusts against their joined hands. It’s almost what he wants. Yet still it is not enough.

Corvo, at last, seems to get the message. He quirks an eyebrow at Daud’s desperation, still far more calm and composed than Daud would like, despite the blood, _Daud’s_ blood, streaking his face, the clothes disarrayed from fighting, and the bulge Daud can see growing between his legs. Somehow he manages to stay collected, this fugitive so recently delivered to Daud on death’s door, while Daud has lost all pretense to control he ever claimed.

Daud whines as Corvo pulls his hand away, but it is only to undo the fastening of his trousers. And then Corvo’s hand returns, but no longer is there any barrier between them. Now it is skin to skin, Corvo’s hand on the sensitive skin of Daud’s cock. Corvo strokes his thumb along Daud’s length, and even that subtle movement is almost too much after all the teasing. Daud bucks his hips up, no longer caring how desperate he appears, just wanting _more._

Corvo pulls away again, but before Daud can complain, he’s pulling Daud’s trousers down. He gets partway only to be met with the obstacle of Daud’s boots. He barely hesitates before once again picking up his sword, pulling the fabric taut, and slicing through the trousers, leaving Daud with hardly a piece of clothing left intact. The movements of Corvo’s blade are more careful this time, cutting through Daud’s trousers without cutting into his skin, and Daud finds he almost misses it, despite the wounds still bleeding on his chest. Those have already faded to a dull ache, and he craves more, new sharp and pleasant pains as his cock throbs with arousal.

Then – a graze of the sword against his thigh – not enough to break skin, but enough to tease, to taunt with the possibility of more, and Daud wants it. He wraps his legs around Corvo’s hips, trying to pull him closer. Corvo lets him. Briefly. The he’s spreading Daud’s legs wide, leaving his cock, hard and aching, standing on display.

Corvo runs a finger along Daud’s cock, still teasing, nowhere near what he wants. What he _needs_. But it’s sublime, a tantalizing taste of what’s in store. Then Corvo’s finger continues down over sensitive skin to Daud’s ass, circling but not entering him.

Daud fumbles at the drawers at his side, blindly pulling one open and snagging a bottle from it before handing it to Corvo. It’s oil, meant for polishing weapons, but that’s of no matter; it will work well enough for this purpose. And is Daud not a weapon himself? The Knife of Dunwall, honed to fine and deadly edge, now quivering beneath Corvo’s hands.

Corvo opens the bottle, inspecting the contents before pouring it onto his right palm and spreading it to coat his hand. He presses one slick finger to Daud’s entrance, probing gently before pushing in. Daud gasps and squirms against the unaccustomed intrusion. It’s too much and yet not enough. He can’t stand it. He wants more. _Needs_ more.

As if hearing this plea, Corvo presses in a second finger. He pushes them apart, spreading Daud open, before letting them fall back together. Then he pulls his fingers nearly out before pushing them back in, then repeats the motion, fucking Daud on his fingers as he tries not to squirm. It’s already almost more than he can bear when a third finger joins them, inescapable, inevitable, spearing into him with determination.

Then Corvo pulls out his fingers, wiping them clean on Daud’s shredded clothes. He unfastens his trousers and grabs hold of his own cock, already hard, and Daud’s gratified to see he’s had an effect despite Corvo’s apparent self-possession.

Corvo slicks his cock with the oil and positions it against Daud’s ass. Then he presses in. It’s too much too soon, too big, too fast. The stretch is so much more than the fingers of a moment ago. It _hurts._ It’s a different pain from the scoring along Daud’s chest, different from the lines across his throat, something deeper, less sharp and immediate. But it’s an ache that Daud relishes, savoring the pain and fullness and satisfaction as Corvo slides in.

Corvo’s cock fills Daud at a torturously slow pace. Daud feels every inch, every movement, as Corvo pushes forward and into him. It seems an eternity before he finally stops, fully embedded within Daud. And – oh, what a sensation that is. He’s filled to the brim with Corvo, no longer dreading his presence but embracing it. Craving it.

Corvo pauses for long moments without moving, letting them both acclimate. Then he pulls back, still slow, until his cock is barely in Daud. He hangs there until Daud thinks he might never move again, and he’s nearly ready to do – something, he isn’t sure what, but surely there’s _something_ he can do to convince Corvo to just _go,_ when Corvo slams back into him. This time is not slow, not measured, hard and almost brutal and hitting just _right,_ pain and pleasure thrumming through him like an explosion of whale oil. Then again, and again, each slide of Corvo’s cock in and out of him, each driving thrust drawing him tighter and tighter.

Then Corvo’s hand goes to stroke Daud’s cock, rough and too fast and exactly perfect, each caress sending further heat spiraling within him, even as Corvo continues to thrust into him. Blood keeps dripping from his wounds, the pain ever-present, the pleasure overwhelming as he jerks helplessly against Corvo’s hand. Each movement is both too much and too little, Daud’s body no longer knowing what to do with this input, sensations blending until he loses track of good and bad, negative and positive, nothing but hands and heat and blood and sweat.

But still it isn’t quite enough. He’s close, so close, on the very precipice. His cock strains, hard and aching, as Corvo’s movements become jerkier, faster and less controlled. He freezes, face a grimace of ecstasy as his body shakes through his orgasm. Then his hand clenches and digs into one of the slashes he’s left on Daud’s chest.

And with that the tension within Daud snaps, and he’s coming, shuddering as hot spurts land on his chest and stomach. The release is simultaneously perfect and horrible as it wrenches through his whole body. He’s been so close to this edge for so long it seemed he would never arrive, and it wrings him dry of everything he has.

Daud can do nothing but lie there, drained. The wounds Corvo’s sword left still bleed sluggishly, slick red joined by white, painting a portrait of debauchery upon his skin. Corvo drags the fingers of his left hand through the mess – his marked hand, the Outsider’s gift linking them, unwelcome as it is, thrust to the forefront. His fingers wend their way desultorily up Daud’s chest, gliding over oversensitive skin, too near yet too far from where he’s sliced open.

He wants Corvo’s fingers on him forever, _in_ him, digging into the cuts he’s made, the evidence of their tryst that is now forever branded onto Daud’s body. He wants Corvo to leave, to never see this man who has ruined him again. He wants this moment to continue, endless, just the two of them bound in an eternal interlude of pleasure and pain.

Corvo’s fingers continue upwards, drawing blood along in bold strokes. He runs them across Daud’s stomach, along his chest, up to his neck where the cut across his throat is still so new. His hand is oddly gentle, horribly tender, a tool of chaos turned to new purpose. He’s taken Daud apart through violence and pleasure, but this turn to softness is devastating.

His fingers trail up Daud’s chin and finally stop at his lips. Corvo nudges them open, forcing three fingers inside, and Daud obligingly lets his jaw fall open, no will left within him to deny Corvo. Bitter salt and iron flood his mouth, his own blood and sweat and semen and Corvo’s fingers heavy upon his tongue. He thinks about biting down, but it’s far too much effort. Easier to accept what Corvo gives him. Easier to lick Corvo’s fingers clean, running his tongue along ridges and whorls, against the sharp edge of nail, the taste of blood intensifying until nothing else remains to him.

Finally Corvo pulls them free, wiping his fingers dry on Daud’s cheek. Then he leans down and lays a soft kiss on Daud’s lips. His hair forms a shroud around them, wrapping them in darkness until Corvo once again pulls back. The contact is so brief, so fleeting, that Daud barely registers it before it’s over. Would hardly believe it had happened if not for the blood – _his_ blood – now spotting Corvo’s lips. Corvo’s tongue darts out to lick it away, and Daud can’t help mirroring the motion, mesmerized by it, quick and pink, there and gone again.

Daud thinks he should move, do something more to stop Corvo, but his whole body is sluggish, his brain most of all, and the idea of lying here without moving for a week seems incredibly appealing. Even as Corvo nonchalantly walks away and rifles through his belongings, Daud still can’t work up the energy to stop him. He’s sure he’ll care later, once he can think and his brain recovers any function beyond fuzz, but for now everything but watching Corvo is beyond him.

Finally Corvo seems satisfied. He returns to where Daud lies, still unmoving, and cocks his head, considering. He reaches out a hand, and Daud hisses as Corvo drops a key on his chest. _His_ key, one he hadn’t even noticed Corvo taking, left upon him as if it’s a gift, as if Corvo is doing him a _favor_. It’s warm from Corvo’s own body heat, no shock of cold metal, but it’s too close to Daud’s new injuries, tapping against already abused flesh.

Corvo lifts his mask back from where it lies upon the desk, settling it wordlessly back upon his face. Daud watches as all evidence of their encounter vanishes beneath its impassive façade. The blood on Corvo’s cheeks, the bite reddened lips, all evidence of the man once again hidden, only the killer remaining.

Before Daud can open his mouth and even begin formulating a retort, Corvo has vanished out of existence, leaving nothing but the faint flash of the Outsider’s power in his wake. Leaving nothing but Daud, ruined.

**Author's Note:**

> This was horribly self indulgent, so thank you for reading this far!


End file.
